


Battle-Scarred, I Am Working Oh So Hard

by halfpenny



Series: Rough and Tumble [4]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M, rough-and-tumble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-09
Updated: 2009-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-12 06:55:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfpenny/pseuds/halfpenny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of the day, he’s a doctor, not a scientist or an engineer or a captain .</p>
            </blockquote>





	Battle-Scarred, I Am Working Oh So Hard

 

McCoy wouldn’t exactly describe himself as a superstitious man. Not exactly. You can’t go through medical through without losing certain illusions, and for McCoy a belief in the supernatural was the first to go. But old habits die hard because McCoy would rather set his own arm than tempt fate when his life is going well. His ex called it looking for falling pianos, this need of his to expect the worst during the good times. McCoy called it being right more often than not.

McCoy’s a regular fixture on away missions. Kirk likes having a medical officer close at hand so that when things go bad, and they do go bad, inevitably, invariably, someone can do their best to patch up whichever poor bastard has taken a phaser blast to the chest. In spite of the astronomical injury rate, McCoy never worries about away missions. He figures if he buys it on the surface of some godforsaken planet half a galaxy away from Earth and Joanna and anyone else who might give a damn…well, better him than Jim or Scotty or even that green-blooded son of a bitch. To his mind, it’s not morbid, just practical. At the end of the day, he’s a doctor, not a scientist or an engineer or a captain. The _Enterprise_ could muddle through fine with one less crotchety back-country doctor.

At least, that’s how he used to think. Now, it’s complicated. Because of her. After the divorce, McCoy believed he wasn’t cut out for marriage. The day-to-day business of being a husband was for more patient men, gentler men. Part of him was relieved when Jocelyn walked because he wouldn’t have to pretend he was happy going through the motions. But now, now he’s not so sure.

He’s getting used to Christine. He’s getting used to working beside her in sickbay, her cool, competent hands flashing over consoles. He’s getting used to the little sidelong smiles she offers up between patients. And he’s getting desperately, painfully used to waking up against her warm, familiar body, wrapped up like a promise in his bed. A man could start to need a woman like her. McCoy’s not so sure he doesn’t already. So when against all odds, against all logic, it’s Chapel—Christine who ends up nearly dead during an away mission instead of him, something snaps inside Leonard McCoy.

The planet is Delton Tertius. It’s a tiny bauble of a world, closer to a moon than a planet, really, with rolling red dunes visible from orbit. McCoy is willing to bet good credits on the fact that the resemblance to Vulcan is more than part of the reason Mr. Spock persuaded the captain to send down medical teams when Uhura relayed the distress call. It was textbook, a disease outbreak and subsequent panic to be contained. McCoy headed the Alpha team in the capital city while Kimmel and Chapel took the Beta and Gamma teams to the smaller villages located in the rocky outcroppings on the fringes of the desert. Eighteen hours and countless vaccines later, McCoy beams back up to the _Enterprise_ exhausted and ready to let one of the junior medical officers take over. Kimmel checks in, his voice thin and scratchy over the static on the communicator. McCoy listens and sure as a heartbeat, Chapel’s clipped, professional voice comes through next. “All clear here,” she says. “There’s some concern about the stability of the shelter, but I’m not really worried.”

“What kinds of concerns?” asks Kirk. The captain’s getting antsy, pacing the bridge and double-checking readouts. He wants to get gone and McCoy doesn’t blame him. Sandstorms are picking up on the surface and the sketchy communications channels are starting to go, making Uhura frustrated and snappish.

Chapel doesn’t miss a beat. “We’re in some sort of cave and the Deltans aren’t happy about it. I tried to tell them it’s better than being out in that wind, but—Hotcher, look out!” There’s a solid sounding boom on the other end of the channel and then scattered screaming. McCoy holds perfectly still as the bridge listens to Hotcher shouting _Chapel, Chapel, can you hear me? I need you to focus. Chapel!_ And then the transmission goes. Without a word, without so much as looking at the sympathy on Uhura’s face or the concern in Jim’s eyes, McCoy exits the bridge. He concentrates on breathing in and out the entire way down to the transporter room. The breathing helps. It pushes down the violent urge to scream or throw up or both.

Jim follows McCoy to the transporter room. Scotty explains, not unkindly, that the sandstorms and the ore of the cave walls are making transportation an impossibility. An image of Christine bleeding out on a rock floor flashes through McCoy’s mind and suddenly the breathing isn’t helping so much anymore. “I don’t care about the interference, Scotty,” McCoy says, utterly reasonably, the picture of rationality. “I need you to beam me down to the Gamma location and then beam us all back up.”

 It makes so much sense inside his head. McCoy can’t understand why Scotty’s looking at Jim or why Jim’s trying to take him by the arm and lead him away. “That’s your job, Mr. Scott. Now if you can’t do your job, I’ll relieve you and find someone who can.” Scotty blanches and Jim finally gets a hold on McCoy’s elbow. “Damn it, Jim, lay off me!” Jim’s saying something now, nonsense about waiting out the storm and Chapel being a trooper, but McCoy’s really not interested. His entire world has been reduced to two simple facts: Christine is hurt and he is not with her. He needs to fix the latter to fix the former, and these so-called friends of his are keeping him from doing that.

“Come on, Bones.” Jim’s trying to be soothing, but his words feel like sandpaper on McCoy’s ears. Don’t they get it? She’s down there and McCoy can’t get to her. This is unacceptable. Scotty walks away from the transporter consol and McCoy does the most logical thing he can think of. He grabs the engineer and hauls him back to the controls. Jim shoved McCoy away from the other man, and McCoy, who’s had exactly enough of Jim’s interference, hauls back and punches his best friend in the mouth.

Jim may be the captain, but McCoy’s got inches and weight on him, and Jim rocks backward with the force of the blow. When his head snaps around, there’s blood on his lower lip. McCoy makes a mental note to apologize later, once Christine’s back on the ship, but Jim, the son of a bitch, pulls rank. “Doctor McCoy,” he booms in his taking-no-shit-captain tone. “Report to your quarters where you will remain until further notice.” McCoy is seriously considering hitting him again, captain or no, when the transporter energizes behind them. The figures have stabilized before Scotty can get back to the monitor and then all the air is gone from the room when a dusty, frazzled Christine steps down off the platform.

“Damn, I can’t believe that worked. Mr. Scott, you’ll appreciate this. They’ve got some kind of boosting beacon. Cuts right through the interference and—” Christine looks at everyone else, who are looking at McCoy, who is looking at her. “What—what’s the matter?” She turns dark eyes, wide and confused and so fucking alive, on McCoy. Jim and Scotty might be talking, McCoy has no idea, and he could care less. He takes three steps forward and picks Christine up, wide palms around her thighs, and sets her down on the transporter consol. He has a med scanner waiting on his belt, but that’s not going to cut it right now. He passes his hands over her arms, her wrists, down her ribs, up her back. He checks for broken bones, cuts, bruises put on her body by something other than his mouth. “Umm,” Christine says and jerks her chin over his shoulder. McCoy barely spares a glance at his shocked crew members. “Maybe we should—”

“Out,” McCoy says between gritted teeth as he returns to his scrutiny of Christine. It’s not a request and his superior officers file out quietly and seal the doors behind them. It’s only when he’s satisfied that she’s whole and unharmed that the fear in his veins catches fire and turns into something else, something harder. “What the fuck were you thinking?” he asks and crushes his mouth over hers before she can protest that that makes no sense. By now, he knows how Christine likes to be kissed, the rhythms that make her sigh and moan, but he could give a flying fuck about rhythm because she’s alive and breathing hard under him and the thump of her pulse jumping at her throat is almost enough to make him come.

Christine struggles to keep her balance on the edge of the consol and McCoy takes advantage of her divided attention to sink his teeth quick and hard into the curve of her shoulder. She tastes like rock-dust and sweat. “God damn,” he groans and twines his hands deeper into her filthy hair. “God damn, God damn, God—” A murmur of laughter from the hallway outside causes Christine to jerk away. She slides down and off the console, and McCoy is halfway into lifting her back up, where the fuck does she think she’s going, when she tugs him toward the door.

She leads him by the hand like a child through the corridors, ignoring the open stares of the crew they pass, until they reach his quarters. She keys in calmly and steps into the cool darkness of his bedroom. She opens her mouth as the door hisses shut behind her, to lock it or call for lights, but whichever one it is, McCoy has no time. He has her up against the door before the damn thing is even properly shut. He feels a sharp burst of satisfaction at the soft thump of flesh against the wall. He pins her in place, his hips flush against her, and hooks her legs up higher around him. “You could have died,” he says into her breasts while she wrestles his shirt off. He keeps the other thoughts, _I thought you had, I thought you were gone, don’t you leave me too_ , buried deep in his chest and concentrates on the feeling of Christine rolling her hips.

McCoy fumbles with her underwear for a moment, then gives up, thumbing her in tight, hard circles through the wet cotton. Christine drops her head back against the door and mewls, high and strained. “Oh fuck, Leonard. Yes, right—right there, oh God.” He doesn’t listen to the words falling from her mouth. He thinks about the squeeze of her lungs and the rush of air from her lips, and feels sick with the thought of her trapped down on that fucking planet. He exhales, hot and damp, against her ear and that does it. She shakes apart under his fingers, begging him to not stop, never stop, and he doesn’t. He keeps his hand moving against her twitching flesh, soothing her with murmurs of _good girl, sweet, that’s it, all of it, come on now, good._

She slumps down, going deadweight in his arms, and McCoy needs more than his next breath to see her. He pivots sharply and tumbles her onto his bed. She’s still half-gone, shuddering at the mercy of the aftershocks. McCoy strips his clothes from him and Christine catches on, wriggling out of her uniform and shoes. He leans down over her, slides along her skin until he can fist his hands in her hair again. She tries to kiss him, but he puts his face into the crook of her neck and jerks into her. She gasps and arches reflexively, her back strung bow-tight as he winces at the sudden wet heat of her around his cock.  

McCoy tries to find something soft to whisper in her ear, he truly does, but he can only get out, “Don’t. Ever. Do. That. To. Me. Again.” A twist of guilt lances through him, but the bite of Christine’s nail on his back eases that somewhat. “I’ll fucking—don’t ever—I don’t know what, oh Christ alive.” He breaks off as the pulse of his hips takes him over, blotting out all thought and reason, leaving only her, just her, her teeth at his jaw and her hair in his eyes and her low, sweet voice humming over and over _okay, okay, okay_. She twists her fingers through his hair and tugs, lightly, but it’s enough. He comes like a flood, like a knife, like a question into her body, so completely he cannot understand the words dropping from his mouth. He thinks it's her name, again and again and again.

Afterwards, he doesn’t pull out. He stays sprawled on top of her, pressing her firmly into the mattress. Now, he thinks through the haze of sweat and sex and relief, now is the time to say something meaningful, something tender. But all he does is pant, shallow and hot, into her neck. Damp locks of her hair puff out with each of his breaths. She cradles him, her knees against his ribs, her hands in his hair, and McCoy wants to tell her that this, this is safety and solace in the silent dark of empty space. Then, like a miracle, she whispers back the answer to his body’s question. She hugs him tightly, too tight for comfort, and proves she’s understood every word he didn’t say. “I love you, too.”

He dozes in and out of sleep, her heartbeat steady under his ear like a promise, like an anchor.

She’s still there when he wakes.

 


End file.
